


All the World

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Control, Sounding, Teasing, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Sometimes the world is too big.
Relationships: Frank Castle/David "Micro" Lieberman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	All the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soubriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/gifts), [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).



> a lil treat for my buds :]

There are days when the world is huge and yawning; a noisy, impossible cacophony of violence, danger, goal and distraction. Frank can't always focus where he's needed, where he's planned and prepared; the violence of this huge world forces him to change. Every action becomes tangential, every goal a waypoint to something bigger. 

Linus tries to help. Linus sees the bloom of the world in the fury behind Frank's eyes, he steers, suggests, and finally snaps, dragging Frank in and shutting the world away with ruthless efficiency Frank can't help but respect. 

“It’s best," Linus says, Frank's arms bound and his ass perched on a stool that seems unlikely to survive prolonged use, "if you’re not hard when we start."

These are the days they try things Frank doesn't have the patience to try any other time. These are the times when Linus decides, when Frank is a body in a chair with no weapons, no hands, no choice but obedience.

“Take a deep breath, Frank."

Searing cold. Frank's bottom lip catches between his teeth; he bites down on the gasp and the groan that threatens. The frigid trickle of ice melting against his skin demands attention -- demands every scrap of focus Frank has left.

Linus shifts his grip. Now the ice slides up, now down, trapped between a fist and Frank's cock. Linus hums to himself, just like he would if he were watching a chemical reaction or the smart-but-expected response of a machine he'd programmed. 

His eyes are calm behind his glasses. They never move from his working hand; his other absently pets Frank's hair when he shudders. He observes, impassive, as Frank's cock slowly goes limp, rubbing cool, damp fingers in the slick of wet running from the end and spreading it all around the head of Frank's cock, thumb pressing underneath.

At last Linus turns away, releasing Frank from his grip, but it's no relief. If anything, the loss of contact makes Frank more desperate for it. The air blooms acidic with the scent of the alcoholic hand sanitizer Linus briskly rubs into his hands as he turns his back and looks over his supplies. He lifts something -- a slender rod -- holding it up to the light. Frank thinks about the principles of torture: the showmanship, the building of anticipation, the whip that sinks deeper than any physical weapon.

When Linus takes hold of Frank again, the touch is without ceremony -- almost clinical. He squeezes the tip of Frank's cock, pressing open that tiny hole. Another flood of clear fluid leaks out and Linus rumbles a considering hum. Frank feels a lash of heat across the back of his neck, waiting for more, waiting. He has never allowed anything like this; he might have imagined how it could feel, but all he has been capable of is fantasy. He has no frame of reference. 

Linus holds him, eyes burning into him, and Frank waits. Waiting is all he's allowed to do. 

The sounding rod isn't thick enough to hurt, but it burns. Frank's breath leaves him in a slow, airy gasp; Linus's eyes don't leave his cock, but Frank has no trouble seeing the way his pupils blow wide as he watches the sound sink inside. The rod itself is smooth, cold enough to make Frank twitch and try to thrust into Linus's grip. It's only the sharp glare Linus shoots him that keeps him still.

It's so much sensation in such a concentrated place; it's possibly the most intense physical sensation Frank has ever experienced in a sexual context. It seems to be eternal: the push of the sound into Frank, the tip of it preceded by a faint burn that blooms out into Frank's core long before the rod is fully hilted. By the time Linus’s fingertips touch him, Frank is barely able to draw breath; he feels as if he's breathing through a straw finer than the tool stretching his dick open.

When Linus finally draws the sound out again, Frank sucks in air, fists clenching convulsively. The rope clenches his wrists tight and even that scratch is like fire. Frank's eyes are wide, he knows he's sweating, probably looks insane. Linus hums softly and lets the rod slide back in, a slow suction as inevitable as gravity doing all the work, until once again it's fully inside. This time, he pushes it just a little deeper, before withdrawing it and repeating the process. 

Again.

Again.

By the sixth time, Frank is sucking in air convulsively, desperate and dizzy. It's like losing his mind; he can't move  _ into _ the sensation, and he can't escape it, either. White burns behind his eyes and his thigh quake with the effort to remain still. Faintly, he's aware of his own loud, senseless moaning, echoing back to his dazed ears from the hollow corners of the warehouse. 

Linus pushes it in, both hands occupied with Frank's dick and the unending torture of the sound, but he kisses Frank's open mouth, licking those moans off his tongue and muffling the sound before it can echo. He kisses Frank possessively, ruthlessly, passionate and demanding.

It's maddening. A rhythm without end. Linus pulls the sound back until only the rounded tip remains inside, then lets it sink slowly back in, only to nudge it just that much further. Make Frank take more of it, because there's always more, it seems. There's something around the middle of the sound -- a design or a texture. It rubs him inside where nothing has ever rubbed, a devilish lashing of extra sensation that makes Frank feel -- makes him feel --

It's ice on hot coals. It's lightning on lava, shooting through his nerves to the jagged pulse of his beating heart. 

"More," he says (begs), and his whole body trembles now, shaking and burning with an agonizing sense of need. It's as infuriating as it is incredible, not enough and too slow, too much and too good, but horrifyingly underwhelming where it counts. He's going to cum; he  _ has _ to cum. 

If Linus would just let him.

But Linus only kisses him, lingering and slow, indifferent to Frank's desperation. "No," he says sweetly, speaking between kisses. "There is no more. No faster, no harder. Just this."

The rod twists and slides, Linus's grip unyielding, his command implacable. 

Another punishing slide of the sound through the tight, throbbing core of him. It feels like Linus is coring him out, searing him from his belly up. Frank realizes just then that he's rocking, the stool creaking in the rhythm of his sway. Sweat runs down over his skin, wetting every curve of muscle. Orgasm is so close but just out of reach; Frank can taste it with every slide of Linus's tongue against his own.

He's going to die like this. He'd do it gladly if Linus would just let him cum first. 

"Fuck, it's--" he pants, breath quivering. Linus keeps on kissing him, stealing his words, so all he can do is curl his toes against the cold of the floor and whine.

His gut quivers, muscles spasming. Hair rises all over his body, nerves misfiring, skin prickling with gooseflesh. Linus’s hand around his cock is agonizingly lax, a shade too loose to do anything more than just tease him in this unending juxtaposition of pleasure and torture. Frank can’t progress and he can’t retreat; it just goes on and on. The only thing that gets in any way easier is the slide of Linus’s hand as Frank leaks around the rod, his system primed but unable to fire. He’s ready, god, he’s  _ been _ ready, but the choice isn’t his. 

He’s given that over to Linus for now.

And Frank doesn’t quite want it to stop, doesn’t want to lose this. Needing to cum and being wholly unable: the mix of it, the rawness, the beautiful all consuming ache of it.

This is what he needed.

This is the man who can give it to him.

The fire of it rips through his guts and up into his lungs, it sears his thigh muscles and leaves him with his weight up on the tips of his toes, dripping from his cock and his lips and his eyes, incoherent. Linus kisses him with sweet aggression and torments him with ruthless prejudice.

“You’re so sensitive,” he says, approving but clinical, a doctor with a patient doing well. His fingers stroke the taunt expanse of Frank’s balls, drawn hot and tight and feeling like they must be swollen double with the need for release. “Should I stop?” The tease of a stroke, fingers barely curled around Franks cock. “No?” Another -- just the skim of soft hands over Frank's aching flesh. “Maybe you still want more?”

Linus mouths at Frank’s jaw, inhales against the sweat slicked curls below his ear, and Frank can’t even respond. 

_ Yes _ , he wants to say; he tries and fails, consonants mashing together without a vowel. He’s trying, desperately, to maintain some control and save himself from shattering. Speech has never in his life seemed so difficult, so faulty; Frank has never had to try so, so hard for a single word.

“How big is the world, Frank?” Linus asks, low in his ear, the barb of his words private from even his own action, and Frank sobs with it, sobs because the world is  _ small,  _ it’s small, just one little room and the edges of Frank's ragged perception. It’s just Linus cool against Frank’s wild hot. All he can hear is the rush of his own blood and the wet slick of Linus’s hand on him; all he can see is the thin rim of green around Linus’s blown pupil and the glisten of sweat on his forehead. The room reeks of arousal and Frank is lost in a world that measures fourteen feet by ten.

Three more light, languid touches and Frank is choking on air, forehead resting against the collar of Linus’s shirt. He doesn’t need control, not here, not now, so he gives it up. He puts it in Linus’s hands, gives it all over. Linus pushes the sound just deep enough to hold him open and finally,  _ finally  _ strokes him, running his hand from root to tip as his thumb rubs up the underside.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he invites, “cum for me.”

Frank can’t help himself. He couldn’t control it, even if he wanted to. He groans; distantly, he hears some gratified noise slip out of Linus as well. All of the heat that's been burning through Frank’s middle rushes out in great heavy pulses as he cums and cums, released at last. It leaves him sagging against his bonds as Linus murmurs praise and strokes him through it.

The metal slips free with a rush of liquid, and, when Frank manages to open his eyes, Linus is watching him, heavy lidded and satisfied. Twin spots of high colour perch on his pale cheeks, his hair is at least as much of a mess as Frank’s must be, and -- it seems impossible, but... Frank knows what Linus looks like after he’s cum. 

The sounding rod is set aside and Linus licks his fingers, wipes his hands on his shirt and reaches for Frank again. He kisses his mouth as he leans in and pulls the rope loose with a couple quick, neat tugs, freeing Frank so that Linus can run his hands, soft and sure, over the aching stiffness already setting in.

He hasn’t stopped shaking, tremors shuddering through his thighs and now his arms and hands. The world is no longer the size of this room but somewhere between the shivering and the steadiness of Linus’s hands, and as control creeps back into Frank, he finds there’s a reason to keep the world exactly this small.


End file.
